


A Hollow of Rain Somewhere

by inkyrobotsparks



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Comforting, Established Relationship, M/M, Missionary, PWP, Vanilla, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 18:51:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23844871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkyrobotsparks/pseuds/inkyrobotsparks
Summary: No complications here. Just soft, comforting Hankco smut on a night Connor comes home tired, wrung out, into the arms of his very loving Hank.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 20
Kudos: 244





	A Hollow of Rain Somewhere

Connor likes the rainy evenings best.

It’s not the pleasant rush of water, or the gentle thrumming against the windowpane, or the smell of wet grass and cement on the cool draft when a window is cracked open.

Those are nice. But better is the smell of wet dog, the small puddles of water Sumo had tracked into the kitchen, the low jazz playing over the living room speakers. Better yet is coming home, locking the door behind him and hastily shedding the damp outer layers of his jacket and leaving them to dry, beelining for the warm bathroom that is still humid and smells like Hank’s soap to hop in the shower and wash away the cold.

The best part of all is finding Hank right after. His habits on these kinds of torrential nights are predictable - he likes to unwind, sit down with a book or fold up on the couch and watch something nostalgic on the tv, but with the volume low so he can still hear the rain.

Connor would be the first to admit that he rushes through his shower, soaping up and rinsing off with hot water as quickly as he can manage. The steam is nice, the heat is nice - but there’s somewhere he’d much rather be, so he hops out, rummages through the clean, soft clothes he’s started leaving in a folded pile in the corner of the bathroom specifically for this purpose.

He steals one of Hank’s shirts and a clean but slightly threadbare pair of boxers. They’re both big enough to be a little loose on him, but they’re very comfortable, and - Connor likes wearing Hank’s clothes. They smell like him, too, but even more than his shampoo, traces of his natural scent clinging to the fabric.

Connor tucks his nose into the edge of the t-shirt and inhales deeply as he exits the bathroom, steam billowing behind him. Sumo is snoring softly from his spot by the foot of the couch. There’s an old analog clock ticking away almost in time to Connor’s heartbeat, the carpet is soft under his feet.

He pokes his head into the bedroom, and has to swallow down the thirium saliva flooding his mouth.

Hank’s stretched out on the bed, propped up on one elbow, reading glasses slipping halfway down his nose - which is buried in a book, of course. Connor can’t read the title, but judging by the yellowed pages and worn corners, it’s one of Hank’s old, well-loved science-fiction novels. His hair is a little damp, and he hadn’t bothered putting on anything besides an open bathrobe he’s all but spilling out of, and some cotton sweatpants after his own bath. Connor sends up a silent thanks to gravity for making his belly hang out like _that_.

For a long moment he finds himself transfixed by the picture he makes, because really, no one should be allowed to look this good, but somehow Hank manages.

Connor wants to crawl on top of him. Or maybe under his skin, who really knows.

Hank looks up, warm mouth quirking in that hesitant half-smile Connor would go to war for. “Hey there. Meeting go well?”

“It went,” Connor says with a dismissive shrug. He doesn’t really want to talk about Jericho right now, or the hours he’d spent trapped in a room with too many politicians, poring over documents and negotiations that went in circles. It didn’t go poorly, exactly, but Connor still felt out of place, stressed and frazzled and oddly useless (even though Markus insisted he needs and wants Connor there), and he suspects that’s not likely to change anytime soon. Even with the subject matter on the table today being what it was - he’s restless now, uncomfortable, a little desperate to forget everything and just focus on here and now, on things he can control.

He’s far more interested in settling down, in sinking back into the familiarity and comfort of home. Needs it, after a day like today, so he sits on the edge of the bed on top of the crisp, down comforter wrapped in soft flannel and sighs when Hank reaches for his wrist.

His fingers are thick and warm, a shackle around it, a firm grip that sends a pulse of _something_ straight through his middle. He folds one leg under himself, stares at Hank and just - marvels, really, because there’s nothing more soothing than admiring him, and his mouth waters a little bit again.

Hank is _big_. Connor’s gaze zeroes in on the bulge between his legs. His pants are loose, but the way they’ve twisted a little around him when he rested, Connor can see a very familiar, heavy outline pressing against the faded gray fabric, and he wants his mouth on it _now_.

“You alright there, partner?” Hank mutters, evidently amused.

Connor catches himself leaning forward, has a moment to feel chagrined because he should probably ask Hank how his afternoon was, but then Hank puts his book dog-eared on the nightstand and shifts to sit up, then cups Connor’s face.

Connor’s thoughts scatter abruptly. Being near Hank is intoxicating, even more so like this, when he’s close, offering his grip to lean into, his fingertips points of hot pressure somewhere at the base of Connor’s skull. His breath catches and stops, because for a moment his processing his entirely overloaded, just swirling and basking in Hank’s smell.

There’s a touch of warm, generous lips against his forehead, and Connor sags, crawling into Hank’s lap, tucking his face into the crook of his neck and breathing deep, vision sparking when Hank’s arms go around him.

“M’alright,” he mumbles into Hank’s bare shoulder, and it feels completely true, now.

Hank’s laugh rumbles somewhere deep in his chest. “Come here. Long day?” he asks, dragging them both down, pulling Connor into his open arms, and tipping them both until they’re lying side by side, legs tangled, Connor tucked into Hank, head pillowed on his shoulder.

_Not anymore_, Connor thinks desperately, trying to nuzzle closer, frustrated when it proves impossible. None of the days feel long enough when he’s home.

A hand drifts through his hair. He sighs, sniffing at the warm hollow at Hank’s throat, tension draining out of him like someone had pulled the plug out of an overflowing tub.

Hank kneads the back of his neck. “Fuck. That bad?”

“No,” Connor breathes finally, rubbing his cheek against Hank’s chest. His skin radiates heat, and it’s soft under the coarse hair. Connor likes the texture, the contrast, the faint scent of him right under his nose. The faded lines of his tattoo just at the corner of his vision, easy to trace and follow, like a map he knows by heart. Trailing his fingers over them has become an exercise in self-soothing, and one he likes to indulge in often. “Just missed you.”

Hank snorts. “You saw me - what, four hours ago?”

Connor doesn’t yawn, but the urge strikes him anyway, though he can’t quite say why. “Four hours and twenty-six minutes,” he mumbles instead, restless until he finds the perfect spot over Hank’s heart to rest his hand. He can feel it beating behind his sternum, strong and steady, then a little faster when Connor presses his lips to his pulse.

Even faster still when Connor shifts slightly, moving his leg up until his bare calf brushes across the front of Hank’s sweatpants, right over the bulge that Connor is definitely not trying to feel.

Hank huffs warmly against his temple. “I bet you think you’re being coy about this.”

Connor growls softly. He searches, restless, teeth finding a tendon and rolling over it gently, and if he had it in him to be anything but desperately needy right now, he could smirk at Hank’s soft gasp, and the way he shifts a little into Connor, a hint of friction between them.

“Easy,” Hank breathes, squeezing Connor’s hip. “Let me look at you first.”

So Connor rears back, because what Hank asks for, Hank should always have as far as he’s concerned. He hums when Hank makes an insistent kind of eye contact, locking him in place with the weight of that blue gaze. His glasses are a little askew, and he looks at Connor over their rim, eyes concerned and gentle. His cheeks are a touch pink.

“I love you,” Connor blurts out, because sometimes it just wells out of him without his say-so. It still surprises him when Hank’s gaze just turns softer and he responds in kind, hand traveling up the inside of Connor’s thigh.

“Want me to take care of you tonight, honey?” Hank rumbles, voice rich and warm. He knows the answer by now, but he always asks anyway, and it sends a pleasant thrill down Connor’s spine. He nods and lets his eyes slip shut, and his lips part when Hank kisses him at the same exact time he reaches into the thin boxers Connor stole. No preamble, no teasing, just Hank’s warm, rough hand suddenly cupping him with nothing between them, with the full texture of Hank’s calluses and fingerprints and all against Connor’s bare skin.

Hank takes full advantage of the little sound that leaves him, licking into Connor’s mouth, swallowing his gasp when he offers his grip for pressure and for friction, stroking Connor to full hardness. He rolls into that touch, feels himself rapidly dissolve into a puddle. There’s just so inherently _comforting_ to have Hank’s bulk pressing against him and his hand between his legs, something that makes Connor go boneless.

So he reaches to wrap around him, lets his hands roam as they will. His first target is Hank’s chest, because it’s soft and firm all at once, and although he laughs breathlessly when Connor kneads warm muscle and fat, he also groans a little and bucks his hips like it feels better than he’d like to admit. Connor traces the faded lines of his tattoo and rubs his fingers through the fine hair, humming in delight at the plush give of his flesh. It makes for a very pleasant handful.

Hank nips his lower lip, then tips them both sharply, too fast for Connor’s stabilization to compensate. He’s suddenly fully on his back, staring up at Hank face hovering over him.

“Enough of that. I was taking care of you, remember?”

Connor reaches between them, plucks one of Hank’s nipples like a guitar string, and for a second it’s a sweet victory because Hank’s elbow buckles on a low groan. But then he shifts, withdraws his hand, settling down on top of Connor, teeth grazing a sensitive spot behind his ear and knee pressing up, wedging in between Connor’s bare thighs.

Connor whines weakly. No, Hank’s not big, he’s _huge_, and being underneath him is - completely overwhelming. His back is broad when he presses his hand between his shoulder-blades, under the cotton bathrobe pooling around them. His teeth and his tongue are doing something unspeakable to Connor’s skin at his throat, and his thigh - Connor grinds against it, and it’s firm and soft like the rest of him, and every bit of this is a warm, familiar comfort.

Connor whines. Somehow, this feels like all he’s ever needed. He could come just like this, rutting against Hank’s leg, and be perfectly happy.

Hank hikes Connor’s shirt up and lays his open palm, fingers splayed, on the flat of Connor’s belly. It’s heavy enough that Connor’s eyes want to roll back in his head.

“Hank,” he breathes, his voice sounding thin even to his own ears. “More.”

Hank sucks a little bite to a spot under Connor’s jaw, then draws back with a slick little pop.. He’s settled on his side, almost on top of Connor but not quite.

“Take this off.” Connor tugs at the edge of the bathrobe, rethinks this, and snaps the elastic of Hank’s pants, too. “And these.”

Hank grins and cups his cheek, rubs Connor’s parted lips with his thumb. “You done using my tits as a stress ball?”

Connor frowns. “No.”

Hank bows his head and laughs, breath ghosting out across Connor’s collarbone. The most natural place for Connor’s hands to go is his hair, and he buries his fingers into the soft silver curls, enjoying the sigh it draws out of some deep place in Hank’s chest.

“You’re a menace, you know that?” Hank says fondly, voice low and soft, a little blissed out.

Connor pouts, but he doesn’t stop petting Hank’s head, or combing his fingers through his hair. “I just like touching you. And I’d like to touch you naked.”

He feels Hank smile against his neck. “Then I think it’s only fair if you get naked too. Turnabout, you know? Let me get my hands on _this_ properly.” He emphasizes his point by shifting, pressing his thigh against Connor’s erection again. Connor wheezes softly, looking up at the ceiling. The familiar shadows and shapes at the edges of his vision, where he can see the rest of the room.

He reaches down, hikes his own shirt up as much as he can. “Help me.”

Hank follows his hand, brushes over his knuckles, then slides right under the fabric, smoothing up the side of Connor’s ribs, tracing the subtle seam of his thirium pump regulator - a tiny motion that makes Connor see stars.

“Did you wear my baggy-ass clothes just to seduce me?” Hank asks, sounding entirely too casual.

“Depends. Is it working?”

“Hm. Is it working, he asks.” Hank shifts down his body, and presses a scratchy kiss right above the waistband.

Connor throws his arm over his face and works on keeping his breathing normal. It doesn’t quite work, not when he feels a hot, liquid touch of Hank’s tongue at his hip. The low whine that builds in his throat is entirely involuntary.

Thunder rumbles outside, a soft, rolling sound that makes them both perk up. Connor exhales slowly, combing his fingers through Hank’s hair again, absorbing all the information he can about Hank’s hands, the whorls of his fingerprints on his skin, his breath ghosting over a vulnerable-feeling spot on Connor’s belly.

It’s still a wonder, how safe this feels. Because it’s his antithesis, because vulnerability was _never_ meant to elicit anything but fear in him, and yet he’s here and letting Hank tug the thin boxers down his thighs, letting him touch, tipping his knee to the side to give Hank better access to himself. Groaning into the quiet when Hank strokes him slowly, his hand almost big enough to envelop his shaft completely. And it’s not the first time, and it won’t be the last. It’s just a Tuesday night in their bed, their _home, _and Hank is touching him like he was made for this, slow and reverent and just a little teasing, and it’s nothing but good and normal, and - reassuring.

Connor arches up off the sheets when Hank sucks a toothy, damp kiss to the inside junction of his hip and his thigh. The sensation shoots through him in a static zigzag, and it’s only accentuated when Hank’s glasses slip a little down his nose, the cold rim bumping into him right above the searing heat of his mouth.

Hank grunts, and draws back a little to slide his them off and toss them to the nightstand.

Connor’s almost sorry. Hank looks handsome in his glasses.

The thought is abruptly wiped from his mind when Hank nips a sharp little bite into his hip and prods at Connor’s entrance with blunt fingertips. He doesn’t need to be careful, but he always is anyway, and it takes Connor mewling as he draws his knee up to his chest to get him to sink two fingers fully into the slick heat of his body. It’s _sharp_, almost an edge too much. Connor rolls back against his hand on a shaky moan, and Hank repeats that small thrust, a little harder.

The stretch is nice. Connor lies there with one leg curled up, panting quietly and trying to move into it, aching, biting down on another whine when Hank’s fingers curl into a tight knot of wires somewhere deep inside him. He clenches around those thick fingers, shifting restlessly, lubricant leaking - it feels like his body is desperate for Hank to be closer, deeper, but -

Hank presses a damp kiss to the inside of Connor’s knee. Something inside Connor unwinds rapidly. “Hank. Come here.”

Hank blinks and stares up at him and their eyes meet, and - that’s curiously intimate too. They look at each other often, of course, even (and especially) in the middle of sex, but there’s something about Hank settled between Connor’s legs, still tenderly and slowly fingering him open when he says, “Tell me what you need.”

“You. Here. Now,” Connor manages, his patience a thread about to break. “No teasing. I just want you inside me.”

Hank exhales against the inside of his thigh, crooks his fingers up just enough to be a little mean. “I’m inside you, baby.”

Connor reaches for his hair and makes a fist in it, not quite pulling, but urgent enough that he sees something spark in Hank’s gaze. “I want you to-” to fuck me, he almost manages to say, but gets stuck somewhere in the asking, and he’s not sure why. Something in his chest just hitches, wet and needy, and it’s enough to get Hank to crawl back up his body to hush him with a gentle hand in his hair and his lips at Connor’s throat.

And that’s better, much better despite the sudden emptiness. Connor aches, he _wants_ to be filled, but right now more important is just - this, just wrapping his arms around Hank and pressing in close to him, pulling him down until he’s settled on top of Connor, until the warmth of his skin and his mouth is the only thing Connor feels.

Connor reaches between them, manages to get the bathrobe down one shoulder, and the rest follows of Hank’s own volition. When he’s done trying to wiggle out of his clothes without breaking away from Connor for more than two seconds, he settles back down, half-hard and resting heavy against Connor’s inner thigh.

His skin bleeds away where they’re touching. He can’t help it - having Hank just like this is never _quite_ close enough. He reaches down and wraps his fingers around the familiar weight of Hank’s cock, shifts a little until it rests against his own, whines because the contact is doing _something _to him.

Hank hums as Connor strokes him. He’s taking his time, trying to read Hank’s pulse and his breathing, but mostly he doesn’t have to anymore. He knows what Hank likes, that he likes lying tangled with him, softly exploring Connor’s mouth until the heat builds too much to ignore. It doesn’t have to be instant, Connor has learned. There’s a certain quiet, soothing perfection to building their arousal like this, clumsily, smooshed together in their bed and barely moving.

He likes the sounds Hank makes. He’s not loud, but his breathing goes uneven, deeper, ends sometimes on a low moan that’s almost a vibration more than a noise, and it shoots straight through Connor like a lance. His lubrication protocols keep reengaging despite his own best efforts to keep them in check, and he’s leaking and hard, and he can feel every twitch of Hank pressed so intimately against him that he finds himself drifting, tucked under his chin, perfectly happy to do this forever.

The best part is Hank touching him back. There’s days they’re both restless, hungry for each other in a way that has them stumbling through the living room already half-undressed and fucking somewhere on the way against a wall because they just can’t wait. But right now, like this - Hank’s hand is on his ribs, or his back, or he’s reaching between them to tease them both as they rut gently against each other without a hurry in the world, and it’s maybe Connor’s favorite thing in the world. The shared intimacy. The feeling of being absolutely and unquestionably taken care of. Hank sees him, he treats him with care, and with respect, with love.

Hank nips his lower lip. “Better?”

“Much,” Connor breathes. It’s overwhelmingly better. Hank’s weight pressing him into the bed is somehow exactly everything he’s ever needed. He squeezes Hank’s upper arm, sighs against his mouth and thinks, _soft_.

And when Hank finally nudges his legs a little more apart, aligns himself, and sinks into him, it’s like - like a switch is flipped and everything stops, settles, a waveform that goes from jagged and twitchy to a slow pulse he feels where they’re joined. The only thing he can focus on is the way Hank is pushing into his body, the weight of him, the slick friction and the familiarity of his lips moving against Connor’s and the gentle, shallow thrusts that deepen into something so achingly good that Connor moans thinly and comes in weak spurts against Hank’s belly where it’s rubbing against him before he has a chance to realize he’s about to.

And Hank’s not even close to settled, he’s still working into him with those small, jerky movements, until he touches some place deep inside of Connor that sends an electric jolt right through his core.

He feels - open. Too sensitive. It’s like nothing else in the world, feeling Hank so much it almost hurts. Feeling his hard heartbeat, his fingers digging into Connor’s side when he clings closer. They leave imprints on his chassis. So does Hank’s forehead where it’s pressed to his, his ragged breaths, the intense focus in his eyes, though those imprints run much deeper, write themselves into Connor’s code.

Thunder rumbles outside, but the only thing Connor hears is Hank’s quiet moan and the slick sound of a sharp thrust. He wraps his arms around Hank, hooks one leg over him, because any amount of space between them is intolerable. But for a second, he allows himself to turn down his sensors, just so he can focus on the sound Hank makes when he buries his face in the crook of Connor’s neck on a low groan.

Connor exhales, cups the back of his skull to keep him there, gently. His thirium pump is still pounding desperately fast, but there’s something almost soothing about cradling Hank and - feeling a little less, just in exchange for feeling all of _him_, absorbing every detail, every stuttering breath, his sweat, the way he’s grinding into Connor and hardly drawing back, to the point where it just feels like - like he’s found a way to be a part of him, entwined with him, finally wormed his way into Connor’s core where he can stay.

Hank nips his neck, preses his tongue into a tender place where Connor’s thirium pulses under his skin. “Come back to me, baby.”

“Oh,” Connor says, and turns his sensors back up. Almost sobs the second everything hits him again. The heat, the swell of Hank’s belly fitting neatly against him.

“You okay?” Hank asks against a patch of skin under his ear, warm and quiet. He draws back a little to look at Connor, and he’s flushed and breathing hard but his expression is nothing but love and concern.

Connor swallows, throat clicking. “Yeah.”

Hank cups his face, rubs the wet fringe of Connor’s lashes with his thumb. “What do you need?”

Connor makes a point of wiggling a little bit. He almost says ‘nothing’, then almost says ‘come inside me’ because both those things are true, but then a new desire sneaks up on him, and he blinks, wordlessly opening up an access panel and twisting so Hank can reach it, even with hardly any space between them.

They’ve done this before, but not like this, so he’s not prepared for how it feels when Hank immediately takes the hint and skims the open edge with his fingertips before sinking them between the overheated wires on his side and under his ribs. Connor can _feel_ them being pushed apart to make room for Hank’s fingers, can feel something electric and so intense it hurts skirting along his spine. His whine is laced with static, white noise filling his ears, his whole world suddenly concentrated solely on Hank over him, around him, and _inside him, _a slow thrust coupled with a gentle tug on his wiring.

Connor comes before Hank can say ‘come for me again,’ the tension in him snapping like a rubber band. He moves restlessly though it, chasing the aftershocks, trembling, and - if Hank wasn’t holding him he’d be almost scared, he’s sure, of just how much he can feel at once, of how much like falling this feels.

But Hank is holding him. And a few moments later when Connor comes down, still panting and shivering, oversensitive, Hank’s warm, rolling thrusts turn sharper, and Connor finds himself drawing his leg up again for a better angle, whining when Hank speeds up a little, movements stuttering right before he grunts in that tell-tale way of his and sinks in deep, spilling inside him on a low moan.

Connor squeezes around him instinctively, lashes half-lowered, panting into the top of Hank’s head, going entirely still. He’s not human, and this isn’t how it works, but it still feels - primal, raw, to have Hank pinning him with his own hips, fucking him through his release, teeth sharp at Connor’s throat. He feels - claimed, in some animal way that settles him, settles his heart. It’s wet and messy and human and he feels every bit.

Hank’s weight sinks down on top of him, and that’s bliss. Hank is heavy, soft, he laces his fingers with Connors and kisses his neck and his jaw tiredly, not budging an inch, fingers still tangled into Connor’s wiring, still gentle. They smell like sex, and now that Connor is less overwhelmed he feels the mess they’ve made, marking him, still making him warm.

When Hank goes to roll away, Connor wraps his legs around his hips and whines. “No. Stay.”

Hank laughs, warm in his ear. And stays, rubbing the scratchy bristles of his beard against Connor’s throat, making his skin spark and crackle oddly. His thumb circles around a wire somewhere deep under Connor’s chassis, and Connor exhales noisily. He doesn’t want to untangle. Ever. They could become one symbiotic being, forever intertwined, and he wouldn’t ever need to feel anything besides this.

Of course, Hank’s arm falls asleep eventually, and he has to pull away, slipping out of Connor and leaving behind something uncomfortably like a void. Connor can’t quite fight down a small flinch and a ragged breath, but then, they’ve done this before too, so a second later Hank is pulling the blanket up around Connor’s shoulders, dragging him in close until he’s tucked flush against his chest. He kneads the curve of Connor’s butt, slips his fingers lower to touch where he was, where Connor is still sensitive and leaking a mixture of lubricant and Hank’s seed.

He kisses Connor’s forehead, pushes two fingers inside him again, and it takes the edge off that awful, empty ache. Connor latches onto his collarbone and sighs, reaching up to toy with Hank’s nipple, warm, drifting. Hank’s a good pillow. Hank might be a good _everything_. He muffles the noise of the world outside, leaves behind just his heartbeat and the falling rain.

“I’m glad you’re home,” he mutters into the top of Connor’s head. He’s sleepy, his arm heavy around Connor’s waist. “Are you feeling better?”

Connor nuzzles closer on a long sigh. “Yeah. I feel good, Hank.”

It’s true, and remains true even when much later, he thinks about his Jericho meeting again, but with Hank’s scent still wrapped around him and Hank snoring softly at his side. There’s no one’s arms he’d rather be in for the rest of his life. No one who’s _home_ the way Hank is his home. He’ll tell him on day, properly, when the world is ready, when it’s done mulling over the papers Connor had spent hours staring at just today, he’ll ask. He’ll ask Hank for forever.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on twitter @inkysparks


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